He turns back and points to his chest, as if to say, Who? Me? “Wasn’t planning on it. I’m not really much of a dancer,” he admits.
“Ah. You didn’t come to the sleepover either. High school traditions aren’t your thing?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“They would be . . . if I had someone to go with,” he says shyly.
A lump lodges in my throat. “Well . . . I’m planning to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup. Do you . . . do you want to maybe go with me? If you don’t already have other, better plans.” Good lord. I’m awful at this. I need to go home and lie down.
“Sounds like fun. DM me the details,” he says. “I’ll make sure to download Instagram again.” He flashes the signature Clay Diaz smile before turning away.
A squeal escapes me and I practically dent my paper plate with my fingertips. I just asked Clay Diaz to prom. Clay. Diaz. The guy I’ve been hopelessly and pathetically pining over for the past four years. In what world did I drum up the lady balls to do that?
By the time I remember that Renner was behind me in line, he’s gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
I find Renner back with our group, sharing grapes and flirting with Andie, of course.
Kassie takes a break from sucking face with Ollie to acknowledge my return and I plop down next to them. “What’s up with you?”
“IjustaskedClayDiaztoprom,” I word vomit, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
She blinks. “What?”
“I just asked Clay to prom,” I repeat, handing her my extra hamburger.
Nori sits up and swipes it before Kassie has the chance, and shoves her sunglasses on top of her head. “What? What did he say?”
“He said yes.”
Kassie screeches, which catches everyone’s attention, including Renner’s. “You’re going to prom with Clay.”
“Clay!” I blurt in a poor attempt to match Kassie’s enthusiasm. Strange that she’s more excited than I am?
Everyone congratulates me, except Renner. In fact, he’s turned back to Andie, far too enamored to care. Not that I want him to.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with excited chatter about the details of prom the next night. How we’re doing our hair, what time we’re showing up at Ollie’s for photos, who’s responsible for what tasks.
“You and Clay are gonna look way too adorable in couple photos,” Kassie tells me. “Did you ask him to match your dress?”
I scan the beach for Clay. But there’s no more sign of him, or any of his friends. “We didn’t have time to talk about that. But I’m gonna send him all the details. Tonight.”
Kassie rests her head on my shoulder. “Look at you being bold and going after what you want. I’m so proud.”
I nod, thinking about how I asked two guys to prom in the span of twenty-four hours. I have no idea where I found the strength to do that. But it feels good, despite being turned down by Renner. Then again, I like to believe everything happens for a reason. Had Renner not turned me down, I wouldn’t have had the courage to ask Clay.
This is all I’ve wanted for years. I’ve dreamed of the moment when Clay Diaz would take interest in me. And now, he’s agreed to be my date for prom. I should be doing cartwheels along the beach.
And yet, I can’t seem to summon the excitement I should be feeling.
THIRTY-SIX
Prom day
I expected to wake up on prom morning and spring out of bed all peppy and buzzing. Everything is exactly as it should be. Kassie and I made up. Renner and I are full-on rivals, enemies, foes, nemeses again.
But instead, all I feel when Mom opens my curtains is blah. I just want to hide under the covers. Not because I feel depressed or anything, but because I want it all to slow down. I’ve spent endless hours thinking about Senior Week all year, but it’s crept up faster than I can keep up with, like brick painting, yearbook signing, and now prom. It seems unfair that it all feels so anticlimactic.
“Did you just hiss at me?” Mom asks.
I shield my eyes like a vampire and dive underneath the covers, where it’s safe. “Maybe.”
She gives me a gentle shake over the blanket. “Come on. Get excited. It’s prom night! You’ve been waiting for this since you were a little girl.”
I croak a weak “Yayyyyy,” but it comes out like a wounded animal. How else can I explain my lack of excitement? I feel total apathy every time I envision myself taking pictures at Ollie’s, walking into the crowded gym.
“And you’re going with Clay Emmanuel Diaz. The hottest guy at MHS.”
I lift the blanket and shoot her an icy look. “I don’t even want to know how you know Clay’s middle name.”
“I creeped him on my burner Instagram account,” she admits proudly, as though having a covert IG account to keep track of your kid and their friends is totally normal. I shiver when she tugs the blankets off me, exposing my skin to the cool air. “Come on, get up. I’m not letting you sleep away the best days of your life.”
I cast a skeptical glance. “Are these really the best days of my life?”
“That’s the thing about the best days of your life. You don’t know they’re the best until they’re already gone,” she tells me, eyes brimming with nostalgia.
That’s a truly depressing thought. If that’s true, what does it mean for someone like me who lives for crushing goals and milestones? Will I ever experience the true joy of achieving them in the moment? Or will the best part always be remembering those times after they’ve already passed?
For a moment, I think Mom is going to bust out her high school yearbook again before she stands. “It’s ten thirty, by the way. Don’t forget you have brunch with Dad in an hour,” she reminds me.
Brunch with Dad. Maybe that has something to do with my mood. With all that’s gone on the past few days, I haven’t had a ton of time to think about it. But it’s been in the back of my mind. Maybe once this brunch is over, my excitement will surface.
The diner’s aesthetic is what Nori calls grunge-retro. Only, it doesn’t seem deliberate. The space hasn’t been renovated in decades. The black-and-white-tiled floors are cracked and scuffed. There’s one crater toward the back of the diner that everyone knows to avoid. The torn, sun-stained booths are a mint-ish color. It’s a hot debate whether they were originally blue or green. (I’m team green.)
There’s a jukebox in the corner that only works if you kick it at exactly the right angle and with just the right amount of force. While the ambiance isn’t exactly ideal, it’s got the best diner food in Maplewood, which is why people put up with the space. The same family has owned it since it first opened, and their recipes have been passed down from generation to generation. Even the gigantic plastic menus haven’t changed since I was in a booster seat.
I expected to arrive first. Dad is perpetually late. But when I walk in, taking in the scent of deep-fried goodness, I see him hunched over at the window table, perusing the menu. Our table. He always requested it because he knew I liked to look out the window and play the car game. The one where we’d lay claim to alternating cars that went by. He’d always let me cheat and claim the pretty cars.
From the entryway, he looks thinner. His thick black hair is now a little sparse around the crown of his head. It reminds me that almost a year has passed since we’ve been face-to-face. He doesn’t really know me, and maybe I don’t really know him. I think about Renner’s offer to come with me. I really could use one of his pep talks right now, even if he is a nitwit.
But Renner’s not here, so I take a step forward, and then another, until I reach the booth.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, tepidly sliding into the booth across from him.
His eyes widen and he opens his mouth, like my appearance is some sort of shock. “You made it,” he says, in the awkward way an old dude would greet his business associate. “Hope you don’t mind. I ordered the grilled cheese for you. I know you used to love them.”